


Three Public Parties and a Private One

by Always_Dreaming



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Drunk Jenson, Funny, Hero Worship, Light-Hearted, M/M, Mentioned Jules Bianchi, Past Character Death, Potty-mouthed Vettel, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-03 23:32:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6631552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Always_Dreaming/pseuds/Always_Dreaming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Fernando and Esteban got together before they were ‘outed’ at the Australian Grand Prix. </p><p>Prequel to Fernandiño.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. December 2014

“So, you are the new Ferrari test driver?” Fernando asked the young man sitting next to him, in lieu of anything else to say. The F1 drivers were having their end of season dinner together in the great hall of a luxury hotel in Monaco. They sat at long, ornate tables with gold cloths and an array of cutlery at each setting.

“Yes. I wish the circumstances weren’t like this though.”

Fernando picked up the red wine bottle on his right and filled Esteban’s nearly empty glass. “Well, we can drink to Jules on this occasion.” He clinked his full glass of wine with the young driver’s glass, saying, “Forza Jules” simultaneously.

A loud burst of music interrupted their conversation and Fernando looked round, annoyed. It was the ‘entertainment’, which consisted of a group of singers he’d never heard of before. He turned back to the table.

To his right sat Kimi, who was excitedly talking to Sebastian. After so many glasses of alcohol, Kimi became quite the chatterbox and as a good friend of Sebastian, had hardly said a word to Fernando.

On Esteban’s left sat his Sauber team mate, Adrian, who was in turn chatting to his good friend Lewis next to him, and opposite sat Valtteri and Felipe, also deep in conversation. Felipe was obviously demonstrating some driving manoeuvre, twisting his hands this way and that, while his team mate nodded and smiled.

So Fernando and Esteban were left in the middle with each other. The noise in the room was getting louder and louder and the heat increasing due to the number of bodies, the hot food and fortifying drinks. Fernando fanned himself with his menu. The prawn dish starter had been…interesting...and he wished he hadn’t ordered it now, but soon the main course would be along to settle his stomach.

Esteban touched his arm. “So, have you got any tips for me on how to work with Ferrari?” 

“Oh! Er…I can’t think of any. Drive faster than the others.” Fernando tried to smile but he feared it came out as a grimace. His companion raised his substantial eyebrows. Really quite amazing eyebrows. Fernando’s stomach rumbled somewhat alarmingly and Esteban looked down at it.

“Excuse me, I think I’ll just go and get some fresh air—” Fernando felt a sudden disturbance and stood up, pushing his chair back abruptly. He hurried to the exit door of the hall.

~~~~~~~~~

Esteban waited for at least half an hour before thinking he should go and check on Fernando. He’d looked pale, even rather green, and had certainly hurried out urgently. The toasts by the senior members of F1 were about to begin, so he took his chance and slipped out of his chair towards the exit Fernando had left by. 

Now where the hell would he be? He’d mentioned fresh air. Esteban strode towards the hotel gardens.

He’d been so happy to join Ferrari but disappointed that his favourite champion was leaving the team at the same time. A Spanish speaking World Champion was the next best thing to a Mexican one and Esteban hoped and hoped that Fernando would win with Ferrari after such a long time without a title. But it hadn’t happened. Maybe he’d get one with McLaren. 

He heard the noise of someone throwing up before he saw Fernando kneeling in the shrubbery, obviously very unwell.

“Hey,” he said gently. “Can I help you?”

Fernando looked up, pale with reddened eyes. “No, I’m okay. Something I ate.”

“Of course. Can I fetch a glass of water?”

“No. No, thanks.” He looked away, blushing.

Esteban tiptoed forwards. 

“Go away!”

“But I can’t just leave you.” He stepped forward, and then Fernando threw up on his shoes.

There was a very awkward pause.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone,” said Esteban kindly.

“Were you going to tell people, then?” Fernando glared at him, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Is that why you came out here, to look for gossip?”

“No! No, I—I just wanted to—to reassure you.”

“Well you better keep this quiet.”

“Okay, okay!”

“Where the hell is Fernando?” said a loud voice nearby. “He’ll miss the photos. We want him with us as the new driver next year.”

Fernando’s eyes widened. “That’s Jenson,” he whispered. “He can’t see me like this.”

“I’ll handle it.” Esteban strode towards the voice and soon saw Jenson and Kevin Magnussen, both walking unsteadily, peering around the neat, ornamental garden like spies.

“Ah, Esteban,” said Jenson. “Seen Fernando?” He hiccupped.

“Er—” The Mexican thought fast. “Last time I saw him, he was at the bar having a drinking competition with Kimi.”

Jenson’s eyes widened. “Oh my god, a drinking competition with _Kimi Raikkonen_?”

“He’ll never survive that. We’d better go and rescue him,” said Kevin, clutching at Jenson’s arm. They lurched off at speed.

Esteban chuckled and returned to the stricken ex- Ferrari driver, who smiled.

“A drinking competition with Raikkonen,” he muttered. “Dear god. No one would win that.”

“Need anything else?” asked Esteban.

“No, thank you. I’ll go back in the hall soon.”

“Okay.” He sauntered off with a spring in his step. It wasn’t every day he got to help his idol.


	2. September 2015

“It’s fucking sad,” said Sebastian as he dealt the hands of poker out to Kimi and Fernando. “Jules shouldn’t have died.” They sat round a table in a rather shabby backroom of the hotel where all the drivers had been having dinner after the Monza Grand Prix.

Kimi took another swig of vodka, Fernando studied his cards.

“That is the understatement of the year, my friend,” said the Finn.

They were all wearing jeans and t-shirts as it had been a casual dinner. They had all drunk to the memory of Jules Bianchi at the supper and vowed to move on, while still remembering him of course.

“Come on, let’s play,” said Fernando, looking round at his companions.

The game began. They were pretty evenly matched—sometimes one driver won a round, sometimes another.

Then Kimi’s phone rang.

“It’s my girlfriend. I have to take it, she is having a bad time with the pregnancy.” He began talking in Finnish, in a soothing tone that Fernando hadn’t heard him use in English. _No-one ever talks to me like that._ He sighed.

“Just you and me then, old man,” joked Sebastian, dealing another hand of cards. Fernando tutted.

Someone knocked at the door.

“How many more fucking interruptions?” complained Sebastian.

A familiar shaggy haired head poked through the gap.

“Hello Sebastian, the big boss wants to speak to you,” said Esteban. “Sorry. He’s in the main lounge.”

“Oh, fucking hell.” Sebastian huffed. “Jesus! I want some time off.” He pushed back his chair and stormed out, almost knocking Esteban over.

“Someone’s not happy,” said the Mexican, leaning his lanky body against the door frame.

Fernando beckoned him into the room. “Want to play poker? It seems I am alone now and I can’t play by myself.”

“Okay.”

He dealt the hands out and the game started. Esteban was hopeless, he didn’t have a poker face, it was too expressive and showed what he was thinking. Fernando pushed him further and further, delighting in winning so easily.

“You haven’t played before, have you? It’s a good thing we’re playing for chips and not real money.” He chortled, sweeping the huge pile of chips towards him.

“Well…at least I don’t puke up on people—er—I mean—”

Fernando blushed. “So, you went round telling everyone that, did you? I should have known!”

“No! Of course I didn’t.”

“Why mention it then? Unless you mean something by it.” He glared at his young companion.

“I don’t know. I just hate losing as much as you, I guess.”

Fernando stared at him. Like a predator, he had spotted a weak prey. “Let’s play for money then. See if that gets you motivated.”

“Okay. I haven’t got any on me though,” Esteban met his glance without flinching.

“That’s fine. You can write an IOU.”

So they played, and again Fernando beat him again and again without mercy. 

“Now you owe me fifty thousand, kid. Give up before I break you.”

“I won’t,” Esteban hissed. “Take all my money and you’re welcome to it.”

Fernando glared at him. This young driver was indestructible for sure. “What about that?” He pointed at Esteban’s Cartier watch.

“Okay.”

They played a hand, and Esteban lost again. “Goddammit!” he shouted, throwing his watch at his tormentor, who laughed.

“Stop now?”

“No.” Esteban raised his chin.

The next hands led to him removing his shoes, which were also expensively made.

“I expect they will fit me nicely.” Fernando laughed mirthlessly, feeling out of control. _Why can’t I break this kid?_

The next round ended in a narrow defeat for Esteban. Again.

“What now? You have nothing left!” cried Fernando.

“Well.” Esteban looked down at his designer t-shirt and rolled it up slowly from the hem, pulling it over his head at last.

Fernando gulped. The tanned and perfectly muscled chest which was revealed made his breath catch for some reason and he stared, open mouthed. A sudden memory of frolicking with Jarno all those years ago filled his mind and heat welled up in his lap. He sat there, just staring at Esteban’s chest while the young man grinned.

The door burst open.

“They are always fucking bothering me with the slightest of details,” complained Sebastian. “Sign this, talk to these people, do you want black or white gloves?” He stopped and took in the scene. “What the fuck is going on here? Strip poker?”

Fernando’s trance broke and he looked up. “Er—we—er—”

“I was just showing him my new tattoo,” said Esteban smoothly, pointing to the Celtic band on his upper arm.

“You can hardly see that, my friend,” said Sebastian, peering at it. “You in on the game or not?”

“Er—no, I better go and—” He picked up his t-shirt and shuffled out of the room. Fernando had a good idea why he was walking strangely.

“Come on then, old man!” exclaimed Sebastian, far too loudly for such a little room. “You deal.”

Fernando took a deep breath and picked up the cards. He must give Esteban his watch back. _Jesus. Who’d have thought some Mexican kid could get me all hot and bothered? How old is he, probably about twenty-two? And I’m thirty-four._


	3. December 2015

Another year had gone by, another season finished and another F1 end of year dinner had come round again. Fernando avoided the prawn starter this year, sticking to a nice, safe gazpacho like his mother made. _What will the next year bring? A resurgence of McLaren so I can finally win another title?_ The last year had been dismal but at least he had a friendlier team mate. He sat at the table next to Jenson, who was already a bit tipsy, and talking nineteen to the dozen. Fernando was content to smile and laugh at him and watch the antics of the other drivers.

He was very aware of Esteban sitting a little way down the table with his fellow Ferrari drivers, Kimi and Sebastian, who were laughing uproariously about something. Esteban looked a bit left out and he caught Fernando’s glance. He pointed to his wrist—Fernando had never got round to giving him his watch back but instead kept it on his dressing table—it was such a handsome thing. Like its owner.

_Stop being so depraved. He’s a hot young man but why would he want some old driver who can’t even win a championship anymore and spends his time at the back of the grid?_

The meal ended, and the drivers, drunk and falling over, decided to sing karaoke. Fernando sat in a daze as the singing—both good and terrible—flowed in one ear and out the other. That steak with dauphinoise potatoes had been delicious and settled nicely in his stomach this year. No need to visit the shrubbery, with or without Esteban’s help.

_Oh! I wanna dance with somebody_  
_I wanna feel the heat with somebody_  
_Yeah! I wanna dance with somebody_  
_With somebody who loves me_

The loud chorus of the Whitney Houston song made Fernando jump and he turned to the stage to see Esteban and Nico Hulkenberg cavorting around on the stage. Esteban was doing most of the singing as Nico’s voice was less melodious.

“Oh my god!” Jenson clutched his team mate’s arm. “What the hell?” He could hardly speak for laughing and Fernando joined him, unable to keep a straight face. “Do they want to try out for the X factor?”

_I've been in love and lost my senses_  
_Spinning through the town_  
_Sooner or later the fever ends_  
_And I wind up feeling down_

As Esteban sang ‘spinning through the town’, Nico twirled him round so violently he nearly fell off the stage and they were laughing so much they could hardly sing or stand up. The whole room of drivers and waiting staff were almost in the same condition and the laughing, clapping, cheering and whistling noise was deafening.

_Don't you wanna dance (dance) With me baby?_  
_Don't you wanna dance (dance) With me boy?_  
_Don't you wanna dance (dance) With me baby?_

_With somebody who loves me_

_Don't you wanna dance?_  
_Say you wanna dance?_  
_Don't you wanna dance?_  
_(Dance)_  
_Don't you wanna dance?_  
_Say you wanna dance?_  
_Don't you wanna dance?_  
_(Dance)_  
_Don't you wanna dance?_  
_Say you wanna dance...(Dance)_  
_Uh-huh_  
_With somebody who loves me_

Esteban and Nico played up to the crowd more and more, skipping round and waving their arms, making themselves dizzy and having to save each other from falling over.

There was an uproar of applause at the end and Fernando and Jenson moved towards the stage, clapping loudly. Jenson and a few others whistled too.

“And now,” said Esteban, teetering on the edge of the stage. “I will do a stage dive.” He stood on tiptoes as everyone, including Fernando and Jenson, ran to catch him. He threw himself off and landed on a group of them, Fernando in the middle, falling back onto the floor under the assault of the flying driver.

“Well, hello,” Esteban slurred to Fernando. “Where’s my watch?” His long limbs flailed everywhere, like a colt.

“I haven’t got your bloody watch. Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m fine. Its good I landed on you, you’re one of the—er—wider drivers.”

“Are you saying I’m fat?” He looked up at the young man, quite liking his warm body pressed down on top of him.

“No—no, I—”

Fernando pushed him off into the waiting arms of Nico and Sebastian, rolled over and stood up. Trying not to look as if he was storming out, he made his way through the crush of people to the exit for some fresh air.

He found a seat in the beautiful, fragrant garden and sat there for a while, breathing in the fresh air, which was welcome after the hot, sweaty dining hall. The moon was a crescent, its soft light giving everything a blue tone, which was relaxing after all the flashing strobes of the disco.

Footsteps approached, and he turned to see Esteban staggering towards him. _Can’t he just leave me alone?_

“Yes?” he snapped, standing up in case he had to defend himself. From what, he wasn’t sure.

“Just wanted to say sorry for insulting you.” Esteban stopped a foot away. “Didn’t mean you were fat.”

“Don’t be a prick. I don’t get offended by things you say.” He turned away to look at the moonlit garden, the leaves waving in the warm breeze, little noises of nocturnal animals faint in the background.

There was such a long pause, Fernando turned to see if his companion had left. But he hadn’t, he was still staring at him.

“As long as you aren’t going to throw up on me again.” There was an edge of mockery in his voice and Fernando took a little step towards him.

“As long as you aren’t going to lose hopelessly at poker.” They glared at each other, the slight smile on Esteban’s face provoking Fernando unbearably.

“Fatty.” Esteban’s smile grew into a snarl as he poked Fernando’s ribs.

“Skinny.” He slapped his hand to Esteban’s chest. There was nothing skinny there of course, just muscle, so after a second he curled his fingers into the dress shirt material, pulled the young driver forward and kissed him desperately. Their hard bodies crashed against each other, pressed tightly, trying to get closer.

Esteban made no complaint but kissed him back and their tongues fought for control, teeth scraped together, fingers tangled in hair painfully. Fernando pushed him against the nearest hedge, but of course their weight was too much for the branches and they sank through it onto a bed of leaves and twigs, still grinding against each other.

At last they had to stop for breath and Fernando rolled off him. They lay there panting, then turned to face each other.

“Guess you’re okay with me then,” gasped Esteban. “ _Campeón_. You’re my favourite champion ever.”

Fernando grinned, his heart pounding. “Guess I am.” They kissed again, as forcefully as before. _God, I want to fuck him til he screams my name. What’s wrong with me? What’s right with me? Stop overthinking!_

So, it began. After that night, Fernando made good use of the apartment he kept in Madrid for overnight stays or shopping trips. His new boyfriend became a permanent fixture and they spent many, many happy days and nights there, arguing about everything and fucking each other stupid.

They kept their relationship a secret because it was simply easier that way—no gossip or insults, no endless interviews with prying questions. That is, until the Australian Grand Prix in 2016…

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve become *just a bit obsessed* with these two since I wrote Fernandiño and wondered how they would have met in the first place. Maybe they should have a couple name. Ferneban or Estando. Haha.


End file.
